Tsunami
by LikeableTarsier
Summary: TsengVincent PWP. A smutty look inside Tseng's head. Screw canon and timelines.


I don't own Final Fantasy 7. Characters are property of squaresoft. Assumption that Tseng and Vincent are both Wutain. Hedonistic Vincent. Graphic male/male sex. Flame me, I beg you.

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Tsunami

Your quiet smile burns my heart into a flickering, stuttering dance as inevitably as the rise and fall of nations. Without your awareness you try so hard to melt me, but I resist to the point of spontaneous combustion. No warm love will you ever have from me; only molten, lightning hot passion to set our souls alight and burn to a crisp what the world would corrupt in us. Your gentle brown eyes singe like green fire, the mako burn of magic and I will burn for you without your having to ask. It is not necessary for you to keep me aflame. You are by your very nature a needed breath of clean oxygen in this polluted city. Always so abrupt with me while your silky raven's-back hair caresses the air into a gentle breeze and provides counterpoint to your blunt nature and diamond-cut features.

"No more to drink, Tseng. You must be awake early tomorrow morning," you say in our native tongue.

"Sir," I acknowledge, and stagger away to privacy, thankful that yet again you have saved me from my own precipitate nature which would have me singing alcoholic odes to your fierce fighting and noble, just leadership.

My one word promise to you is one I can and will keep; I go home to my empty apartment. The shadows in the corners watch me hungrily. "Sleep" they call and I almost break my oath to you in the need to defy them. But in my acknowledgment of your order to sleep I swore to you that I would do so, and so few promises have I kept in the past that to defile one made to you as if you were part of everyday life would be sacrilegious. This established and understood by myself, I heed the siren's call of my bed and dive headfirst into the ocean of dreams.

I dream of the way things could have gone tonight.

I sit patiently at a corner table in a dark, smoky bar; wondering who you are bringing with you and why we aren't in a high-class restaurant on the plate (a luxury you encourage for the intimidating effect it has on informants, but I know you revel in good food and wine.) You enter the bar silently, in such a way as to be unremarked on by any but me. My eyes are welded to you as you cross the floor smoothly like death coming for a much awaited treat. Behind you a young man with sandy-brown hair trips and stutters along, both of you coming to rest in chairs at the peculiarly triangular table I inhabit.

You introduce your companion as the newest recruit for the Turks. He is nervous, but I suspect that has more to do with your beauty than with perpetual uncertainty, so I excuse it. I am often victim to your beauty as well. It is as powerful a weapon as you are, and you have used it upon me before. Currently you are not, but all the same a glance at you is enough to heat my blood and cheeks deliciously. If your eyes meet mine, my lips will begin to tingle and a slow heat will coil in my belly and at the base of my spine.

In this dream that I know to be a dream, your eyes do return to mine, a long awaited homecoming. You gaze upon me with mischief sparkling, an expression you have never worn in daylight. I feel the gentle slither of a snake on my calf, its tongue flickers at the crease of skin behind my knee and my pulse speeds up. Your foot moves on, unobtrusively massaging my thigh as you ask the blonde why he wants to join the Turks. After this all I hear is the rush of blood in my veins and the pounding of my heart as if it is trying to open the door of my ribcage and fly to your hands. As perfect at this as anything, you use your foot like a delicate weapon, tracing my cock gently in a teasing dance. The rookie notices nothing, not my quiet panting nor my aroused flush, though I can barely hold still in my seat and my lips are open to any invasion you will gift to me. I'm about to scream in frustration and at the same time sigh "At last."

And after an infinite number of heartbeats and seconds he is leaving, and we are leaving together. Outside in an alley you pin me to a wall and unzip my pants, fiercely and kindly squeezing while I gasp and moan and want you; forever only your hand and eyes and voice until you say, "Perhaps a more appropriate setting," and drag me away from the building's support. You allow me to lean on you as we walk to your apartment because my legs are turned to mako and my heart an overheating reactor, and even you-the-stoic don't have the patience to wait for me to catch my breath.

I'm at fever pitch. I can't keep my hands off you. As soon as we're in the door I'm enjoying the silk of your hair, the skin of your face and whatever else I can reach. You neck calls to me and I have no resistance; I savor the salt of your skin like tomorrow will never come with it's regrets and stark revealing light, because I know that it will and is in fact racing towards us at the speed of time. You take care to remove all of my clothing and your own so I won't tear anything in my impatience to touch you, and plant a gentle kiss on my forehead to appease me. It does nothing of the sort.

By now I am trembling like a leaf in a tsunami; I can't hold still and I can't hold back. If I remain motionless I'll be burnt by you. I'll scar forever. I'm twisting, writhing desperately into the heat of your body and you put your hands on me to hold me down. You begin an ancient pilgrimage of eyes and hands and teeth-tongue-lips; memorizing what I didn't know existed and making sure I am very aware of your scrutiny. The attacks of this epic battle come randomly; a nibble to the earlobe, a soft palming of my hipbone to see how we fit, a bite to my bicep to taste the skin, yet somehow I am aware that no inch of my body has gone untouched. Satisfied, you carefully insert a finger just where I want it most. You rest it against my prostate and freeze. I squirm breathlessly, stars in my vision in you hair in your eyes and brilliant flashes of white and purple and orange tension so strong I couldn't cut it with a buster sword. You can do it with one twitch of a finger, but don't. Yet.

I'm lost in my own pleasure now, drowning and flushed and unable to control my flailing grasping flexing falling quest enough to take what I need.

"Vincent," I whimper, your name a prayer and the only coherency I am capable of. Another minute of this will leave me an empty shell, all vitality boiled away in the search for you. I will be insane, or dead, but I trust you. You'll give me what I need.

When you lean down to kiss me you taste like copper and gunpowder. The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and clove cigarettes linger in my nostrils.


End file.
